


This place feels like nowhere

by carbonbased000



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Fluff and Smut, IKEA, It's Christmas but no one gives a fuck, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000
Summary: Patrick moves back home after a break-up and meets an old flame.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 39
Kudos: 93





	This place feels like nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andwhatyousaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/gifts).



> **Warning** for a brief description of a panic attack. It’s not super graphic and the person is supported and helped through it, but if you’d rather not read it, just skip from when they get to Ikea until the next section (marked by an asterisk). 
> 
> Title stolen from _I Hate Chicago_ , by Laura Jane Grace and the Devouring Mothers. This is nothing but fiction – especially the part about the old lady in the plants section at Ikea.
> 
> This is for [andwhatyousaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/), who can read me like no one else. Fuck that ocean, darling.

There is no amount of holiday spirit that could make the next two weeks bearable, Patrick thinks, as he helps his mother bring an irrational number of grocery bags into the house. Fucking christmas – yes, in lowercase. It’s not even worth the capital C, this year. And he’s _not_ thinking about last year, so he asks his mom, “How’s grandma?” and suffers through the following twenty minutes of health updates. Still better than the alternative (Brendon looking at him, dark eyes glittering in the light of the fireplace; Brendon smiling at him laid out on the rug in front of the fireplace; Brendon kissing him– _fuck_.) 

He notices the silence filling the air in the kitchen like a particularly persistent burnt smell, but it’s too late; his mom is looking at him with the pitying look he’s come to know and hate so well. 

“Stay for dinner,” she says, and ruffles his hair like he’s five years old. “I’m making mashed potatoes.”

He stays for dinner. He eats way too many mashed potatoes. Then he goes out in the bitterly cold night, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk while walking the 0.6 miles that separate the house he grew up in from his shiny new bachelor pad. 

There’s a party in the other half of the house, warm light and Ariana Grande spilling out from the partially open front door. His new neighbors are nice – two recent college graduates, brother and sister. They even brought him a homemade quiche after they saw him move in. Like it wasn’t sufficiently clear that he was back in the suburbs. Patrick is trying to lay off the sarcasm, though, so he said thank you, and smiled a lot, and invited them in for coffee like the nice boy from Glenview that he never was.

He hasn’t slept well for the past few nights, but his mom’s food is already making him slightly sleepy, and he thinks maybe if he adds a couple of beers to that, he might be able to pass out until the morning, for once. 

Sadly, he’s the kind of bachelor who doesn’t even have beer in his fridge. 

This Target – “the new one,” because it turns out there are two now – at least, is devoid of uncomfortable memories. He used to go to “the old one” when he lived here, for late night snacks and milk or bread or whatever his mom had forgotten to buy on any given day. 

This one, though, has other unfortunate connotations, which Patrick realizes only once he’s parked his car and is distractedly looking across the road while walking toward the entrance – this one is directly across the cemetery where, once upon a time, Pete Wentz pinned him against a tree and kissed the fuck out of him.

*

This is the story of how they met: Jo had told Patrick, _You should come with me to this show on Friday_. _There’s this guy playing_ , _well… singing, well…_ screaming _, he was talking about starting a new band. A pop punk thing. He’s looking for a drummer_. 

Patrick went to the show, and Jo introduced him to the guy. The guy – Pete – proceeded to look him up and down like he was finding him lacking in height, or fashion sense, or both, and then asked him what he played, and Patrick made a list, and then they got to talking about music and Pete seemed less unimpressed by the minute, started looking at him with an intense sort of interest, such that Patrick felt weirded out and finally said, _But I can’t be in your band, I’m supposed to leave at the end of the summer, sorry._

And that might have been it – and it was, at least as far as the band went – only Pete had asked him for his number, _Just in case_ , and Patrick hadn’t asked him _In case of what?_ , he’d felt himself blushing and put his number in Pete’s phone thinking, _Whatever_. Thinking he’d never hear from him again, and feeling disappointed about it, and not knowing why.

The next day, he’d received Pete’s first text. _hey patrick,_ it read, _do you think robots see colors?_ It was so random that Patrick couldn’t help replying, just to see where this thing was headed. Maybe it was a prank, he figured. But Pete kept the conversation going, and seemed genuinely interested in Patrick’s answers. They went back and forth for a few days, talking about bands and records and school – Pete was in college, which made Patrick feel like an _infant_. He told Pete he was in high school, without specifying the year.

Late one night, Pete texted him _, what r u up to?_

 _Nothing much_ , Patrick replied. 

_wanna go for a ride?_

_What, like the Smashing Pumpkins song?_ Patrick had replied, and then felt like an asshole when Pete didn’t text back. Was he serious?

 _Just kidding_ , he’d texted again. _Sure, if you’re asking._

_cool! c u in 20_

And that was how Patrick had found himself in a cemetery in the middle of the night, his palms sweaty because – he told himself – he didn’t want to get arrested for trespassing. Apparently, Pete brought there all his dates. This fact didn’t _really_ do anything to calm Patrick down. 

It started raining lightly. It was very dark – the lights were out; no one was supposed to be there that late. They took shelter under a big leafy tree and Pete looked at Patrick in that same intense way he’d had the night they met, only _more_ , and started to say, _Patrick, listen, I don’t want to– but, I mean, have you ever–_ and then, seeming at a loss for words, he raised a hand and touched Patrick’s jaw with the tips of his fingers.

Patrick turned ruby red and started shaking like a leaf, the awareness of what was going to happen crashing down on him, and he did the only thing he could do, the only thing he could possibly think of to give Pete his consent – talking seemed as alien a concept as suddenly taking flight – he closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. He heard a noise coming from Pete, not completely human-sounding, and then Pete’s hands were in his hair, Pete’s body was pushing him back into the tree trunk and Pete’s voice, though it was so wrecked it barely sounded like him, was whispering in his ear, _Is this okay_ , and Patrick finally found his voice again and said, _Yes yes yes_ and also, just to be on the safe side, _Fuck fuck fuck yes_ , and then Pete was kissing him like Patrick’s lips contained all the oxygen and the warmth and the sweetness in the world. 

Patrick regrets to say that he has compared every subsequent first kiss in his life to that first kiss with Pete, and has found each and every one severely subpar. 

This is the memory that hits him like a small car in the parking lot of the new Target, leaving him disoriented for a minute, frozen, like he can still feel the tree bark rough against his back, through the blue Saves the Dayt-shirt he hasn’t worn in over a decade. 

There’s the sound of a car door slamming shut, and he startles, shaken out of his daze. And then, of course, there is Pete fucking Wentz coming up to him and saying softly, warily, “Patrick?”

He sounds like he’s just seen a ghost. Patrick feels the same way. 

*

Neither of them is sure what to say. Patrick follows Pete around the aisles as he grabs two boxes of Cheerios and two cartons of whole milk and puts them in his basket. He knows he should stop staring, make small talk or something, but he can’t stop looking, remembering, cataloguing the ways in which Pete has changed. 

“What did you need?” Pete asks, taking off his hat – which is black and white, striped – and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

“Beer,” Patrick says absently, and then zones out again, looking at Pete’s hair: it’s softer than the faux hawk Pete used to rock back in the day; the sides are longer and it looks fluffy, like Pete is less rigorous with the straightening. He has stubble now, soft and rough and dark, where before he was always clean-shaven. 

Pete takes advantage of Patrick’s distraction and tries to buy him a six-pack of Stella. 

Which finally breaks the spell somehow, allowing Patrick to tell him, “You know I can buy my own alcohol now, right?” 

Pete laughs, then looks at Patrick through his lashes, his eyes so dark under the fluorescent lights of the store. “I mean _, I_ know that. But I bet you’re still getting carded all the time. Just saving us some time.”

Patrick supposes there is a compliment buried under there, somewhere. _You haven’t changed_. Or, _You still look like jailbait_. Something like that. Patrick _has_ changed, of course – he feels about a century older, for one. But being in his hometown – and now, being with Pete – makes him feel like he never left, like he’s supposed to go to school on Monday, like the car waiting for him outside will be his mom’s, borrowed for the night. So he lets Pete pay for the beer, says _Thank you_ , and then they fall back into silence while they make their way outside. 

Patrick’s car is just a few steps away. He points to it and says, “This is me.” 

Pete turns towards him, starting to hand him the six-pack, and says, “So, what’s this about? Drinking to dull the pain of visiting with your mom?”

“Actually,” says Patrick, putting a hand under the six-pack and waiting for Pete to let go. “I’m not visiting.” 

“You’re not?”

“I moved back. Uhm, I’m starting a new job in the city after the holidays.”

“You’re… staying,” Pete says. He hasn’t let go of the pack yet; Patrick looks down: Pete’s clutching it so hard that the carton is crumpling. “Oh, sorry. Here,” Pete says, and finally lets go, and then goes on, “I mean, where are you staying? 

“I got a new place,” Patrick says. “Like, less than a mile from my mom’s. I know–”

“Hey. No judging. I moved back in with my folks after, uhm, after my divorce.”

“Your divorce,” Patrick parrots back, like a rude idiot, unable to express sympathy or whatever one is supposed to express in these cases because he’s kind of gotten stuck on the fact that: “You got _married_?”

“I know, crazy, right? Anyway, as I said, it didn’t take.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it. What about you? Wife? Girlfriend?”

What exactly is going on? Are they, like, pretending they’re both straight now? Ignoring the pink elephant in the parking lot? Conveniently failing to mention that half-summer they spent making out for hours on end and giving each other some – unless Patrick’s memory is playing tricks on him – _truly excellent_ handjobs whenever possible, but no homo? Excuse him but, _yes_ homo. He’s gay. So – to answer Pete’s question, it would be a husband, if anything. 

And the thing is – he was supposed to _have_ one by now. A husband. And instead he’s going to drink imported beer alone in his underwear while mainlining episodes of _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend_ on Netflix. So he just shrugs, in the end, as if to say, _no one, regardless of gender_. 

Pete’s brow wrinkles, but he doesn’t push further; he looks away for a second, towards the cemetery across the street, and then shakes himself and says, “Oh, and I have a kid now.”

And Patrick should probably stop repeating whatever Pete says but– “A _kid_?” 

“Yeah,” Pete replies, with a soft smile that Patrick doesn’t remember ever seeing on him before. “He’s two-and-a-half now.”

Patrick is speechless. Whenever he’s thought about Pete in the past twelve years – and he has, more often than was probably really healthy – he has always pictured him just like he was when Patrick left Glenview. A punk rock Peter Pan still fucking his way through the scene, changing bands, girlfriends, maybe the occasional boyfriend, like the weather. Patrick would have never imagined him as a married man, never mind _a father_. That was ridiculous, he gets it now – people don’t just wait for you, frozen in place, when you leave them. 

Suddenly, Patrick shivers – he did not dress for the weather at all, just slipped his leather jacket over a cardigan, figuring he would be spending barely any time outside in the cold. Pete, who is wearing a giant black hooded parka and his warm-looking striped hat, reaches out a hand to rub at Patrick’s shoulder, saying, “Dude, you’re freezing, come on, just get in the car.”

Patrick searches his pockets for the keys and does as he’s told, opening the door and getting in the driver’s seat. Pete stands next to the car, watching him, the top half of his face cast in shadow by the furry hood, his lips on the verge of a smile. 

Patrick feels his lips curve up, involuntarily, mirror-like, as he shuts the door, turns on the heating, then rolls down the window and says, “Hey, give me your number.”

Pete’s smile, then, belongs to a warm, golden, ocean-smelling summer breeze, not to this sharp wind blowing through suburbia. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Patrick, inevitably smiling back. “You know. Just in case.”

*

Patrick follows his plan, because as pathetic as it is, it still has its merits – like putting on his warmest pj pants and _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend_ , letting one episode autoplay after the other without really watching, as he drinks his beer and spaces out.

He’s sitting on the rug in front of the TV, his back resting against a wall of boxes - a couch being one of the many things he still hasn’t gotten around to getting, too busy being heartbroken. He’s _so_ not looking forward to going to Ikea alone, another sad thing in the long line of sad things that brought him here. Starting from the one that set this whole crisis in motion. He can still feel somewhere deep in his chest the foolish hope that had warmed him from the inside as he’d bought the ring, and the matching silver chain, because Brendon was not a ring guy, but, Patrick figured, he wouldn't mind wearing it around his neck. Both the ring and the necklace are sitting in one of the boxes that Patrick has absolutely NOT carefully labeled. They could be anywhere, lying in wait, like an explosive device or a particularly creepy jack-in-a-box.

 _Are you still watching?_ Netflix asks him. 

Not really, but Patrick is enjoying the background noise. Twenty-nine years old, and he’s already like his widowed grandmother, whose TV is perennially on “for company.” At least Patrick not-watches good-quality streaming TV series and not, say, _The Price is Right_. 

*

In the morning, last night’s sadness has morphed into horrible anxiety about the twenty-thousand things he needs to get done before he starts his new job in two weeks.

One of the issues is that doing all of it completely on his own is turning out to be more daunting than he thought it would be. He’s not, nor has he ever been, big on asking for help and/or ceding control, but even if he got the fuck over himself and tried a new, more human-like approach, there is still the fact that he doesn’t really know anyone in his hometown anymore. His mom and his siblings are way too busy with their own families, especially in the run up to the holidays. Seventeen-year-old Patrick was not a loner, but neither was he very popular – when he left to go and live with his dad in NYC, Jo was basically his only close friend. They still keep in touch, but she lives in Boston now and is happily married – so happily, in fact, that it is borderline annoying. Not that Patrick is bitter or anything. And Jo would help – Grace would help even more, what with being an interior decorator and all – but they’re 800 miles away. Maybe doing this whole thing so suddenly wasn’t one of his most brilliant ideas. On the other hand, he really couldn’t have spent another fucking second in the apartment with Brendon. 

In the end, Patrick tells himself, if this is not a “just in case” kind of situation, then what? So he texts Pete, _Do you by any chance know someone who might lend me a van? I’d pay, of course._

After five minutes go by with no reply, he adds, _This is Patrick by the way._

Shortly after, Pete calls him, informing him that he has, in fact, a van, and will definitely lend it to Patrick, or, if Patrick wants him to, he will drive him anywhere he likes and help him do what he needs to do. In fact, he’s kid-less for the next three days, and he’s going to miss the little dude _terribly,_ so basically it would be _Patrick_ doing _Pete_ a favor if he would just let him help with whatever, paint, unpack, buy stuff, the whole shebang. 

Patrick, stunned by this display of helpfulness and by the sheer amount of very fast-paced words that have just been unleashed on him, manages to sneak in some variation on the theme of _yes, okay, fantastic, thank you so much_ , and within the hour Pete is in his driveway, sitting in a truly hideous purple mom van. 

On the way, Pete informs him that he volunteers as the coach to a local youth soccer team and needs the van to ferry the team to their away games; then he tells a story about one of his players, who’s apparently named Jeremy and is nine years-old; then he asks Patrick whether he remembers that he used to play (unfortunately, Patrick mostly remembers how hot Pete looked in his soccer uniform), and explains that he had to stop when he destroyed his knee but that coaching kids is really neat, except for the parents, sometimes; then he apologizes for talking Patrick’s ear off and chalks it up to being _so_ nervous. 

“Nervous about _what_?” Patrick asks him, completely baffled by now. He didn’t remember Pete being this loquacious, and he certainly never pictured him driving anything so sensible and yet so violently purple, and also, finally, he can’t imagine why he should be nervous while driving an old-friend-slash-summer-fling to Ikea on what is definitely not a date, is in fact the farthest thing from a date it could possibly be, since one of them has almost certainly turned straight and the other one is fresh from the saddest breakup in the history of queer relationships. 

Pete huffs out a half-laugh, and makes an offhand joke about the soccer balls bouncing around in the back, and proceeds to shut up until they get to their destination. 

And this is how Patrick finds himself at Ikea less than a week before Christmas, his palms sweaty and his heartbeat frantic and his throat squeezed nearly shut. He’s _absolutely not_ having a panic attack at Ikea while on a not-date with Pete Wentz, he tells himself. His brain helpfully points out that he is surely going to die right here in the middle of the showroom, between a beige GRÖNLID sectional couch and a LUNNARP side table, his lifeless body laid out on the fluffy VINDUM rug. There are a million people on this floor alone and it is likely they are all staring at him, the weirdo who is having trouble breathing and whose face is bright red and sweaty and– “Patrick,” someone says.

Pete. Right. He’s not alone, which is at once better and worse. Patrick tries to breathe normally, or at least to pretend like he’s not gulping for air like a beached fish, even while knowing _, theoretically_ , that the problem is he’s getting _too much_ oxygen, and not the other way around. 

“You’re okay,” Pete says. “You’re fine, it’s just a panic attack, come on, let’s sit down.” He takes Patrick’s wrist in his hand and slowly guides him to a couch, sits him down, then sits next to him, close. He keeps his fingers around Patrick’s wrist, cool and dry and incredibly comforting. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m an expert. I’m nervous or anxious, like, all the fucking time.”

Patrick wouldn’t say he has calmed down, exactly, but he is not convinced he is going to die anymore, which is something, and he can focus on their knees just brushing, notice that the couch is blue, remember that blue is his favorite color and that there are good things in the world, too. His chest still feels tight, though, and then Pete says, “You know, when I get one of these, I do a thing that helps, you wanna try it?”

Patrick can’t speak yet, his throat feeling like it’s been punched, but he nods, and Pete moves his head closer and guides him through one of those breathing exercises where you have to count to four, four times, as you inspire, and hold, and expire, and hold, and so on. Patrick knows one that’s very similar and has _never_ fucking helped, but somehow, this time, it works. 

After he is as calm as he’s going to get, Patrick is steered to the plants section and instructed to choose three indoor plants for his apartment while Pete – after double-checking and then triple-checking whether he now feels okay enough to be alone – takes the shopping list that Patrick has printed out from Ikea’s website and goes to get all the things the apartment actually needs. 

Patrick’s not at all sure how he should feel about this whole thing, but he chooses a spider plant, a snake plant, and a peace lily, after an old lady who’s been watching him flail around for a while takes pity on him and asks him if he needs any advice. 

By the time Pete comes back, pushing an overflowing cart, Patrick knows the old lady’s name, the Italian town she was born in, and the story of her life. Clara clearly thinks Pete and him are boyfriends, but she doesn’t clutch her gold crucifix pendant while making the sign of the cross – she just smiles, delicately pats Patrick’s shoulder and the smooth, dark-green leaves of the peace lily, and says, “Oh, he reminds me of my sweetheart.” 

As she’s leaving, Pete smiles brighter than the overhead industrial neon lights, and Patrick smiles back, can’t bring himself to explain that her “sweetheart” was her husband of forty-five years and has been dead for ten. 

*

Later, two empty beer bottles sit close to each other on the floor, in front of the couch that Pete has helped him put together. There is something that will become a coffee table, somewhere, in one of the many flat boxes that are now stacked against the hallway walls. Patrick has decided that assembling a couch was good enough for the day. Pete wanted to keep going, of course – he is very good with his hands, and had an alarming amount of fun ordering Patrick around, saying things like, “Pass me the Phillips screwdriver,” or, “Turn that hex key the other way around.” He could finally get Pete to stop only by promising him beer. 

Now, they are both sitting on the newly-assembled couch, a proper amount of distance between them. Pete says he’s hungry, and Patrick abruptly realizes that his fridge is barren and his cupboards desolate. The kitchen cabinet which should, at some point, serve as his pantry contains: one, a bottle of Lexotan, and two, a jar of ground coffee (he’s aware that’s not a well-balanced _diet_ , precisely, but at least it makes for a reasonably-balanced _Patrick_ ). Basically, he can’t even make a pot of pasta as a thank-you to Pete for single-handedly saving the day, Patrick’s sanity, and his furniture. 

They order from a nearby Chinese place, and Pete gets up to get more beer. When Patrick looks up, the sky outside the window is dark. He turns on his old reading lamp, one of the few things he’s brought from his last apartment. Pete comes back, two bottles in his hand, and he lowers himself to the floor, just outside the circle of light drawn by the lamp, resting his back against the couch seat.

While they wait for their food, they talk: about Pete’s kid, who Pete calls “Si” but whose full name is Silas, “like the vampire in Neil Gaiman’s _Graveyard Book_ ,” and Patrick’s upcoming job at a recording studio in the city. There is a brief stretch of comfortable silence, and then – maybe, Patrick thinks, because he’s had a couple of beers, and they haven’t eaten anything since breakfast or, maybe, because it is so completely dark outside and that small puddle of light feels like it contains the whole world right now – then Pete says, “You remember that summer, right?”

“Of course I do,” says Patrick, automatically, before he can play it down, make it a joke somehow. 

“I think about it a lot, actually,” Pete goes on, his voice so hushed, like a drunken midnight confession, only no one is drunk and it’s barely nine P.M. “I’m so sorry for what happened, you know. I really hope I didn’t fuck you up too badly.”

“I… what are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” Pete repeats, his voice stronger now but still weird, half-broken. “Uhm, maybe the fact that you were seventeen, Patrick, and I took advantage of you, and I–” He stops for a second, scrubs a hand over his face. “I never had the guts to get in touch with you and tell you how fucking wrong it was of me and how fucking sorry I am.”

Patrick can’t see Pete’s face now, only the back of his head, his messy black hair behind his neck. Pete is looking hard at the floor and trembling slightly. Patrick thinks of Pete’s fingers around his wrist, earlier, the touch grounding him. He reaches out and puts his palm there, right where the nape of his neck curves gently, and feels Pete shudder, and then heave a deep sigh. 

Patrick keeps his hand there until he feels Pete still, his breathing getting more normal. Then he says softly, “Have you been beating yourself up about this for all these years? Yes, you were older, but you didn’t take advantage of anyone. I wanted you just as much as you wanted me.” 

Pete's skin is surprisingly smooth and warm under Patrick's touch, and he doesn’t try to get away even as he says, “Yes, but–”

Patrick interrupts, “Okay, tell me one thing, then. If I’d wanted to stop. At any time. What would you have done?” 

“I would have stopped, of course. But still–”

“Pete, seriously. I appreciate this, I do. But, like… You’ve been telling yourself the wrong story. You didn’t scar me for life. I promise. Not even a little.”

“Really?”

“Really. That was such a good summer. It was– _you were_ good. We just had bad timing.” 

Pete laughs then, and it sounds bittersweet, but a weight lifts from Patrick’s stomach nonetheless. “Like, the _worst_ timing,” Pete says, and tilts his head backwards over the seat, finally dislodging Patrick’s hand to smile at him, upside-down.

Even later, too late in fact, after what was probably too much fried rice and kung pao chicken, definitely too much beer, Patrick has joined Pete on the floor and they’re watching a documentary about the ocean – why has he even bought a couch, the rug is really comfortable, and you can’t slide any lower even if you’re tipsy, well, drunk, let’s be honest here, and your limbs feel like overcooked spaghetti. Yes, Pete definitely had the right idea with this sitting-on-the-floor thing, and also – Patrick’s looking at him now, his profile, his amber eyes shining in the half-dark, his throat moving as he takes a long pull of beer, his lips looking so soft… 

Pete’s eyes flick sideways and back again. “What?” he asks, lips curving into a smile.

“Nothing. I was just thinking that the only thing I actually regret about that summer is not losing my virginity to you.”

Pete swallows thickly and carefully turns to look at him, quiet, his eyes huge. “That’s very flattering, Patrick, but, uhm. I really didn’t know what I was doing, so maybe… maybe it was for the best, you know?”

“You didn’t know what you were doing?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Pete goes on after a beat of silence, “I’d always liked girls, before you. And, uhm, after.” 

“Oh, whatever. You were so good to me,” Patrick says. He’s sure he’s blushing furiously by now, but, apparently, that doesn’t mean he’s able to stop talking. “You don’t even realize. I can only _wish_ everyone I met after you had been that good to me.”

Pete looks stunned. “Patrick,” he says, and then, clearly at a loss for words, he says his name a second time and takes Patrick’s hand, which is lying uselessly on the rug, and squeezes it tight. 

*

“ _Come the fuck on_!” 

“Excuse me?” says Jo, from the iPhone that Patrick has left on speaker.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you had picked up, I was talking to this Ikea dresser.”

“Uhm, okay,” Jo replies. “Is there a particular reason for this sign of impending madness, or…?” 

“Yes, I seem to be missing a screw thingy, it’s… frustrating.”

“Dude, come on! You _know_ you have to sort all the hardware by type and check that you have the right number _before_ you start assembling the thing!”

“What? No one does that.” 

“Well, I do, and you should too. Anyway, hi, Patrick, so nice of you to call, also isn’t it Christmas Day? Why are you building furniture instead of celebrating with your family?”

“I did celebrate! I was at my mom’s, and then everyone started asking about Brendon, and it was either leaving or starting to drink in a _serious_ way.”

“Uhm,” says Jo.

“So I left,” says Patrick, and then he adds, “Fuck it,” aiming it both at his family situation and at the missing screw thingy situation. He leaves the dresser half-built on the floor, belly-up, its insides on display, like in one of the sad _ER_ episodes where the patient dies on the operating table.

“It’s not that bad, I said goodbye and everything,” he tells Jo, picking up the phone and putting her off speaker. “Anyway, sorry about… _all of this_. How are you and Grace?”

“We’re good, we’re good, thanks. And don’t worry about it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I’m okay. Really. In fact, I’m going to fucking _decorate_ now.” 

“Right on, dude,” Jo says, laughing. “Call me whenever, okay?”

“I will, promise,” says Patrick, and he hangs up after asking Jo to give Grace a hug. 

His sister’s present to him was a nice cashmere scarf, and the card was a picture of late-Seventies [David Bowie in a bright blue jacket in front of a huge lit-up Christmas tree](http://betterwithapen.xyz/wp-content/uploads/IMG_0759.jpg). His sister, at least, really gets him. Patrick grabs some red washi tape from the kitchen drawer and sticks the card above the fireplace. He knows he has some string lights in a box somewhere... 

“There,” he says, and looks at the festive tableau – Bowie presiding over the half-empty living room, everything almost-cheerfully illuminated by the fairy lights he’s secured to the mantel with more tape. The couch, the rug, the flat packages from Ikea he still needs to open… and now he’s picturing Pete on the couch, beer in hand, eyes twinkling. 

He wonders what Pete’s doing today. They haven’t talked since the night Patrick drunkenly blurted out his innermost regrets. He’s probably scared him off for another dozen years. Or maybe he’s just busy with his kid. 

Patrick fires off the most trivial, harmless text he can think of, throws his phone on the bed, and goes to take a shower. When he comes back to check, he finds a missed call from Pete. He calls him back immediately, covered in goosebumps, hair dripping on the bedspread. 

“Hi,” says Pete. 

“Hi,” says Patrick.

“Hi,” says Pete again, and then he laughs. “Hi, Patrick. How are you?”

“I’m okay. A bit done with this Christmas thing. How’re you?”

“Oh, I get you. I am _so_ done with this Christmas thing,” says Pete. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” Patrick says, “You know, baking with my mom, other stereotypical holiday stuff. I meant to call you, but, uhm–”

“Probably for the best. I was a fucking black hole there for a couple of days.” 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says. “Did something happen?”

“Nah. Just the fucking holidays, y’know.”

Patrick just hums, waits Pete out. He goes back to the bathroom and gets a towel for his hair.

“My ex has Si until New Year’s,” Pete adds, like that’s a random, unrelated fact. 

The closest Patrick got to fatherhood was talking about maybe getting a puppy with Brendon before Brendon decided it would be too much trouble. He really wishes he could say something more useful than, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Pete says, and clears his throat. “What’re you doing tonight?”

“Getting some Korean food and having a _Star Wars_ marathon,” Patrick says immediately – he’s only been looking forward to this plan since the morning. He started fantasizing about it around the time his mom had started telling him all about his cousin Julia’s new baby while looking sad. 

“Uhm, Patrick? How long have you been surviving on takeout?”

“Well…” Patrick begins, with no intention of actually finishing. He doesn’t remember Pete being that concerned about his health when he was still a growing boy; in fact, he remembers skipping many meals in favor of fooling around in the back of Pete’s car.

“Okay, this is non-negotiable,” Pete is saying. “I’m always in for a _Star Wars_ marathon, but you’re coming to my place and I’m cooking you dinner.”

“But…”

“Don’t even fight it, dude.”

*

Pete opens the door with an extremely cute toddler clinging to his hip.

“Uhm?” says Patrick, cleverly.

Pete’s smile is huge, his eyes crinkling at the corners, as he says, “Hi Patrick! This is Silas. There was a little change of plans.”

“I can come back another time,” Patrick blurts out, and Pete’s smile falls right off his face. “No, no!” Patrick backtracks immediately. “I just meant, if it’s too much trouble for you!”

The smile comes back, smaller and soft. “What are you even talking about, dude. Come in.”

Pete’s house is the opposite of Patrick’s, everything bright and slightly off-center. There is a huge tower of plastic building blocks on a large rug; several stuffed animals lounging on the two couches; an alarming amount of children’s books on every flat surface in the room. Under the layer of little-kid clutter, though, there is Pete’s stuff – dvds, books, notebooks, his laptop charging on a small side table, an old-school hi-fi music system, _vinyls_. Patrick can’t wait to poke around like he’s looking for clues on a murder scene, but for now they are sitting at the kitchen island and Pete has just served Silas his dinner.

“Daddy?” Silas clutches at Pete’s arm and smears cream cheese all over the sleeve of his dad’s hoodie, which Pete doesn’t even seem to notice. Patrick would notice, but then, he’s not a dad, plus he changed his shirt four times before coming here tonight. “Little face, daddy?” Silas asks, frowning down at his plate.

“It’s okay, Si. No face. These grow in the ground,” Pete says pointing to the carrots and potatoes. “And this is tofu,” he goes on, pronouncing it slowly. “It’s made with soybeans, so it never had a face.”

“To-foo,” Silas says, slowly. “No face?”

“No face, buddy. I promise.”

As the little boy starts munching happily on a piece of carrot, Patrick looks up at Pete and mouths, _Face?_

Pete leans towards Patrick and whispers, “I’ll tell you later.” Then he gets up, goes around the kitchen island and opens the oven. “I made lasagne. Doesn’t get much more home-cooked meal than that, I figured.”

As he brings over napkins and silverware, he brushes Patrick’s shoulder with his fingers. Patrick shivers, and the thoughts going through his head feel very inappropriate for someone who’s sharing a table with a two-and-a-half-year-old. 

*

“What if our timing was perfect, though?” Pete says, much later. He looks exhausted, half-lying on one of the couches, washed out by the bluish light of the TV screen where _Empire_ is playing. “What if it was amazing because we had a built-in deadline?”

Patrick is sitting on the other end of the same couch – quite far from Pete, because it’s a really huge couch. Earlier, he did the dishes while Pete put Silas to bed. He’d say it felt weirdly domestic, only there was nothing weird about it; it only felt warm, comfortable, like _home_. 

“I think…” Patrick starts, and then stops, considering his words, because the moment feels important. “I can’t speak for you, but, I mean. To me, it was, like, surreal. You were the first guy I kissed. You were just…” he gestures vaguely in Pete’s direction, without looking away from the screen. “I don’t know, you’d text me ‘ _R U up’_ at two A.M. like a booty call but then–“

“But then I brought you on the roof of my house to look for shooting stars,” Pete finishes for him, with a small huff, like he’s making fun of himself. “You really remember that?”

“How could I forget? You’ve been really telling yourself that was… what, creepy? Ugly? Pete, I was so fucking in love with you. That summer was the best season of my whole life. And no, it wasn’t just because I knew I was leaving.”

“Well, I mean– it was mutual. I was _so into you,_ and, to be honest, when you left…” Pete sighs deeply, and Patrick sneaks a glance: Pete’s head is rolled back on the armrest and he’s watching the screen sideways. Luke and Vader cross lightsabers, _kksssshhhh_ , and finally Pete says, “You broke my fucking heart.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick says, breathless, pretending very hard to be absorbed by the duel on Cloud City, like he’s not been aware of the outcome since he was seven years-old. 

“It’s okay,” Pete says, “you didn’t really have a choice.” 

“I’m still the one who left,” Patrick murmurs.

“You’re here now,” says Pete, softly, his voice closer now – and when Patrick looks to the side, Pete is sitting up from his slouch, staring at him like he’s much more interesting than Luke letting go and falling down the reactor shaft, which of course is _objectively_ untrue and yet– Patrick turns towards him so fast he probably twists something, and Pete meets him halfway with one knee bent beneath him, which Patrick dearly hopes is not the injured one, but it can’t be comfortable either way, and then, _finally_ , oh, here is a kiss that can compare to that one against the tree, Patrick thinks, which would be funny if he could muster some sense of humor, but he can’t, because Pete’s lips are against his own, and it’s–

Over the many, many years in which he hasn’t been kissed this way, Patrick has started to doubt. It couldn’t possibly have been _that_ good, that many _leagues_ _ahead_ of any other kiss he had experienced later – surely there was something wrong with his memory, his hormone-addled teenage brain distorting and exaggerating. But he was wrong to doubt, so wrong, because it’s–

It’s Pete. It’s Pete, kissing him for the first time, again. It’s soft and dry and quick, and it’s still the best fucking thing Patrick has felt in the last decade. He rests his forehead against Pete’s, breathes in, licks his lips, and kisses him back with intent, and dedication, and a lot of tongue. Pete makes a sound in the back of his throat like he’s dying, and his hands fly to Patrick’s chest, clutching at his shirt; Patrick gets one hand into Pete’s hair at the back of his head, stroking behind his ear with his thumb, holding him where he wants him while he kisses him and kisses him, like he’s trying to make up for the past twelve years of not having this, and even for the times he did have this but was just a stupid boy who didn’t know what a fucking _treasure_ it was. 

It must be only a few minutes before he breaks away, but Pete is a disaster, flushed, breathing hard, his hair wild, his blown-wide eyes trained on Patrick’s lips. Patrick just wants to mess him up more, and he pushes him to lie down on the couch again; Pete falls back, pliant, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, his lips opening on a sigh, so pretty it’s unreal – the whole thing makes Patrick’s stomach drop. 

He follows Pete down and stretches out above him; just brushing lightly against Pete’s leg is like an electric shock, Patrick’s cock painfully straining against the zip of his jeans. Pete makes another gorgeous sound and slides his thighs open around his hips, making space for Patrick, perfect, instinctive. He’s hard too, the shape of him so obvious in his skinny jeans, and Patrick wants to take him utterly apart, wants _everything_ so much that he doesn’t even know where to begin. He lines up their cocks through their jeans and grinds down, moaning at the warm, sweet friction that is nowhere near enough. 

Pete says his name around a groan, and, rolling his head back and baring his throat, breathes out, “Please”. Patrick locks their hips tighter together, grinds down slowly again, again, pressing open-mouthed kisses behind Pete’s ear, beneath his jaw, down his frantically-working throat. Pete is just _begging_ , probably without even knowing what _for,_ looking so fucking needy that Patrick wants– he wants– 

He wants to think they have time, even with all the time they’ve lost, so he slows down, gets some space between them to watch Pete’s lovely, wrecked face, smoothing his messy hair back from his forehead. Pete opens his eyes, looks up at him, dazed and gasping; when Patrick rests his forehead against his, Pete’s skin feels hot there, like he’s running a fever.

Patrick has a vague plan to reacquaint himself with Pete’s tattoos, maybe check for new ones, like an explorer adding to a map. Slowly, giving Pete time to say _No_ , or _Wait_ , or _What the hell_ , he starts unzipping Pete’s hoodie, undoing the first button of the soft black henley he’s wearing underneath. 

Pete only says Patrick’s name, again, like he’s praying. 

Pete’s skin is so warm under his touch, and the thorns are right where he remembers them. He follows their path with the palm of his hand and then with his lips. Pete moans, and Patrick moves back up, needing to kiss him again, harder, while he presses him down into the couch, sliding a hand under his shirt at his side; Pete shivers and sighs between one kiss and the next while Patrick moves his hand lower, lower, until he gets to the waistband of Pete’s jeans and hooks two fingers in the studded belt – the buckle looks complicated, or maybe Patrick is too turned on to think; in any case, just as he starts considering its workings, there is a _howl_ coming from the other side of the house, and Pete freezes. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, banging the back of his head against the armrest a few times. “No, no, no…” 

Patrick puts his hand between Pete’s head and the couch, stilling him. “Nightmares?”

Pete nods, and starts to sit up, pulling his shirt down. “Just like his dad. Wait for me?” he asks with a small frown.

“Sure,” Patrick says coolly. He would not leave this house if someone were to offer him a million dollars _and_ a purple Ibanez autographed by Prince. “Oh, wait, let me–” he says, trying to put Pete back together, like the half-asleep toddler is going to take one look at his disheveled father, in the glow of his bunny-shaped nightlight, and think, _Yep, they were totally fooling around just now_. 

Pete smiles at him, the frown all but disappearing, and then sets off, presumably towards Silas’ bedroom, muttering, “Be right back, I hope.” 

Patrick is left in the near-dark, the movie’s end credits rolling on the tv screen, the soundtrack playing on low volume. His lips feel warm because he was kissing Pete; his whole body buzzes because it was stretched over Pete’s. He remembers feeling like this the first time they went for a ride in Pete’s car – there was some flimsy excuse, some now-forgotten new CD playing in the car stereo that Patrick absolutely _had_ to hear – and ended up stopping somewhere with trees and without people and making out for hours. He remembers the same phantom warmth, the same low-key disbelief, the same _wonder_ at having actually touched, kissed, tasted someone that beautiful. Patrick would have said that kind of feeling was a singular, once-in-a-lifetime event, and yet, here he is.

The house is quiet except for the faraway hint of Pete’s voice, low and soothing, like a spoken-word lullaby, then a few minutes of complete silence, followed by muted footsteps and the couch shifting as Pete sits next to him, his hand brushing Patrick’s knee. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, softly, opening his eyes – when did he close them? He didn’t even notice. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, “but he’s probably going to wake up again soon. He never sleeps through the night after he has nightmares. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, taking Pete’s hand in his own. “I’ll go. Apparently I’m more tired than I thought, anyway. Would you–” he stops, bites his lip, feels himself blush, seventeen-year-old-shy again for a second. _Pull yourself together, you were going to blow him until he didn’t remember his own name ten fucking minutes ago_ , he tells himself. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, Si should be back with his mom. Why?”

“Well, I owe you dinner. I can’t cook for shit, but I can take you out for pizza. If you– would you like that?”

“I would never say no to pizza,” Pete says, but his smile is perfect, and _pizza_ clearlymeans _you_.

*

“So I proposed to my ex, and he thought I was crazy – he said he wouldn’t even think about settling down before forty, _if ever._ ”

Pete has just taken a bite of pizza, so he just looks at him, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes while he chews and swallows. “Wow,” he says finally. “What a dick.”

“Yeah, well. I lived three years with that... dick,” says Patrick, but he’s fighting a smile. Talking about Brendon does _not_ usually make him laugh, but it’s hard to be glum when Pete looks at him like that.

“What?” says Pete, his eyes twinkling, before taking another huge bite. 

“Nothing,” Patrick says, smiling helplessly. “Nothing.”

“Anyway, I did all that. Got married young. Got an awesome kid out of it, but apart from that, I’m not sure I would recommend it.”

Under no circumstances, Patrick assumes, you should tell someone you are very glad their marriage went down in flames. So he just nods understandingly and pretends to be a normal person for the rest of their dinner.

They drove into the city and got slices of New York-style pizza in little paper plates at Jimmy’s – Patrick was feeling nostalgic for his adopted hometown – while properly updating each other about their respective lives. From the outside, it might look like a first date or, maybe, like two old friends catching up – from the inside, Patrick is finding it harder and harder to make small talk. Pete looks way too good, the blue of his hoodie somehow making his skin seem warmer, his eyes more golden. Patrick just needs to touch him _so badly_ – if he thought he could get away with it at all, he would tell Pete to meet him in the bathroom, go to his knees for him, and make another attempt on the virtue of that fucking belt. 

He is not the kind of guy to use lines at all – but the thing is, he’s distracted, his mind firmly in the gutter as Pete asks him if he’s alright, his voice low and rough – and so what he finally does is take Pete’s hand over the table, rub his thumb down the center of his palm, watch as Pete visibly shivers, and say, “Let’s get out of here?”

They get out of there. They make their way back to Patrick’s car, walking not quite close enough to touch, the gap of chilly air between them feeling solid, like a block of ice. As soon as the car doors slam shut, it cracks – Pete turns to face him, rising half out of his seat, and Patrick can finally put his hands on him, curling one around the back of his neck to pull Pete’s mouth to his own and kiss him like he’s wanted to do for hours. Patrick has never been this hungry for a kiss before, but god, he craves it like a drug – yes, exactly like that fucking Roxy Music song. Pete seems quite happy to be consumed, sitting there and looking _by far_ like the most gorgeous thing that Patrick has ever seen, clearly _wanting_ Patrick – and if that’s not a fucking Christmas miracle, then what? Yes, Patrick is reinstating the capital C and giving up his fight against the holiday spirit right at this moment, as he presses Pete against the dull, unworthy beige upholstery, climbing most of the way onto the passenger seat; not even when he still believed in Santa did he appreciate the holidays more than right now, as he slides his thigh between Pete’s legs, and grinds up slowly, with promise and precision and– 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Pete gasps, grabbing onto Patrick’s shoulders and holding on for dear life. “Fuck, Patrick, let’s go home, please, I _need_ you.”

Will you look at that – it’s two Christmas miracles in one night, as Patrick gets them home safely and does not crash the car into a pole.

*

Pete at twenty-two: a skinny thing, forever running hot, always a restless flurry of movement – Patrick remembers his weight on top of himself, there and then gone, touching him lightly and quickly and _everywhere_ ; he remembers himself going crazy with it, never being able to last. At thirty-four, everything about him is softer, somehow, though Patrick can feel the strength vibrating under his skin, in his arms that are now completely covered in ink. In the interim, Pete has apparently learned to stay still, to lie back and sigh as Patrick kisses down his chest, picking up right where he left off the night before.

Except tonight they’re in Patrick’s bedroom, the rest of the house silent and dark, the only light coming in from the bathroom door that Patrick has left ajar. The sheets and covers are crumpled at the foot of Patrick’s bed, or possibly down on the floor, who fucking _cares_ when there is Pete sprawled under him, trying to get undressed and not succeeding because he’s too far gone. He _whines_ – which finally drives Patrick to help by peeling him out of his skinny jeans and black boxer-briefs and throwing them somewhere, getting out of his own clothes while he’s at it. Pete shifts even closer and slides an arm around Patrick’s waist, pulling him on top again, moaning when their bodies press flush together, his legs opening to make space for Patrick like the night before, which – Patrick wants to fuck him so badly that he can barely think about anything else, but he’s gathered Pete has never done that, so they need to take this slow, take their time – above all, Patrick needs to make it _so fucking good_ that Pete never wants anyone else ever. 

And instead of freaking out or wondering where the fuck that thought has come from, he kisses lower down Pete’s stomach, curls his hands tight around his hips, and finally gets his mouth on him. 

Some people will say everything happens for a reason, but it’s not a thought Patrick has ever entertained – it sounds just as far-fetched to him as divine intervention, like thinking God’s plan is something that has actually been written down on a memo pad in the sky. Now, though, for the first time in his life, he kind of gets it. Brendon was a huge fan of getting head – not so much of giving it, the absolute asshole – so that Patrick has had ample time and motivation to get seriously good at this. Now that he’s using his considerable skills on Pete, though, he thinks that even the crashing and burning of that relationship, all that ugliness and that confusion, might have actually been worth it just for this moment, this moment when he takes Pete’s dick into his mouth and Pete _sobs_.

Patrick starts sucking him off as slow and deep as he can until Pete is moaning non-stop, his hips and thighs trembling against Patrick’s hold, looking as if he’s already close. It’s too soon – Patrick pulls off and slides up to kiss Pete, making him taste himself. 

“Oh god,” Pete sighs, clinging to Patrick’s shoulders and grinding up into his thigh, struggling to open his eyes as they keep fluttering shut; he breathes in, like he’s going to speak, and then just sighs again, looking up at Patrick with huge liquid eyes. 

“You want to come, baby?” Patrick says, and Pete shudders all over, either at the thought of it or at the term of endearment – more thorough testing is needed. For now though, he brings a hand up to Pete’s mouth, thumb dragging on his soft bottom lip and index and middle finger slipping inside as Pete’s mouth opens around him at once. Patrick groans, thinking of different ways this could go, of fucking Pete’s mouth, of being inside him – and he’s going to come just from the thought of that, if he doesn’t _focus_. He kisses Pete again while reaching down with one hand, to the back of Pete’s thigh and then the curve of his ass. He waits Pete out, and gets a sharp intake of breath and another ruinous whine. He rests his thumb on Pete’s hole, not even pressing in, and Pete is suddenly saying, breathless, “Yes, Patrick, please fuck me, please.” 

It would be good – god, Pete would take it beautifully, Patrick can tell – but he manages to tell him, “Next time, baby, I promise,” trying to soothe him by stroking the palm of his other hand on his side. “We’re both wound too tight right now.” 

And they are – fuck, Patrick is out of his mind with it, suddenly unable to wait even one more second. He goes back down and takes Pete as deep as he can, swallowing around him while he presses his thumb inside, just barely, feeling him open up around it, so tight and hot that Patrick groans low in his throat. Pete cries out at that and starts to come deep in Patrick’s mouth, arching his back, clutching desperately at Patrick’s shoulder and the back of his neck. 

After that, all Patrick can do is slide up, look at Pete’s flushed-pink face, his half-lidded eyes, tasting him at the back of his throat still, take himself in hand and jerk off shakily against Pete’s belly.

“Yeah, come on, come on,” Pete says, his voice scraped raw, his hand joining Patrick’s – his palm is dry and drags a bit over Patrick’s skin, reminding him of perfectly messy back-seat handjobs and sending him right over the edge. He comes all over their joined hands and Pete’s stomach – Patrick didn’t even take his shirt off for him, just rucked it up hurriedly to get at him. _Next time_ , Patrick thinks, _next time_ , before half-collapsing over Pete, probably crushing him, to bury his face into the crook of his neck and just breathe him in. _Next time, and next time, and the time after that_ , his mind reels off.

“Oof,” says Pete, his voice rough-sweet. He pets the nape of Patrick’s neck and strokes his hand down his back in a soothing rhythm. Patrick feels like melted chocolate, tender and sticky, but he valiantly rolls off to lie on his back, staying close to Pete’s side. 

Somehow, Pete shuffles even closer. He takes Patrick’s hand, rescuing it from where it’s half-stuck on the narrow portion of wrinkled-to-hell bottom sheet between them, threads their fingers together and says, softly, without looking over, “Next time?” 

Patrick squeezes his hand gently, shifts on his side without letting go. Pete is looking up at the ceiling with a serious little frown. He also looks utterly ruined, still slightly out of breath, one leg tangled in the twisted-up sheets, his hair curling in every possible direction.

“I mean, not right now,” Patrick says, “but yeah, _of course_ next time.”

There is still a little voice whispering in the back of his head that a _very long series of next times_ would be the preferable outcome – Patrick doesn’t mean to divulge any of that craziness, but Pete smiles at him then, so sweetly, so perfectly disarming that Patrick blurts out, “Honestly, as many next times as you want. If you want.”

“I do,” Pete says immediately, looking straight at him now, his golden eyes shining. 

Patrick is brought back for a second to their very first meeting, Pete looking at him like he’d just found the most unlikely surprise in the middle of the shitty venue for that shitty hardcore show; then Pete’s fingers brushing tentative on his face right before their first kiss; Pete’s eyes, warmer and sweeter, slightly crinkled at the corners now, under the fluorescent lighting of the supermarket. His time-traveling is cut short by here-and-now Pete leaning into him and kissing him, honey-sweet and over too soon.

“I do, I want that,” Pete says, after breaking away. “Patrick, I was like, stuck in amber for a fucking long time. Then I saw you in that parking lot, and it was like the world started up again. I know it’s weird, maybe, or too fast… but I don’t give a fuck. If you want me, darling, I’m yours.”

To sum it up, in the past week Pete has bought Patrick beer, saved him from certain death in a Swedish furniture store, built him a couch, offered a sweet and completely unnecessary apology for giving Patrick the best memories of his youth, and introduced him to his kid. Oh, right, and he cooked him lasagne – can’t fail to mention that. Also, they just had some really astonishing sex, and everything points to Pete wanting a lot more of that, and soon. If Patrick told Pete no, he would be the biggest idiot on the planet. So he tells him–

“Fuck.”

Pete laughs. But doesn’t take this as a rejection because Pete _gets him_ – thank you lord, Santa, and whoever else might be out there since it’s obvious, by now, that someone, somewhere is looking out for Patrick. Either this, or the past few days have been a dream and he’s going to wake up soon with a really bad case of nostalgia and a mashed-potatoes hangover after passing out on his mom’s couch. 

Just in case this is actually real, though, he kisses Pete mid-laugh, smiling too wide himself, and in this mess of a kiss he says, against Pete’s lips, “Yes, yes yes, of course I want you, it’s so fucking mutual, I’m yours, too, _yes_.”

*

That long-ago summer, they never actually _slept_ together. Patrick felt that making up some story and lying to his mom to go have sex with a boy, when he was already choosing his dad over her, really seemed like overkill – anyway, the point is that Patrick has never seen Pete in the morning, just stirring from sleep, and he can’t wait – he’d bet he is deliciously warm and rumpled. 

Unfortunately, when Patrick opens his eyes, morning-after Pete is nowhere to be seen. He freaks out for ten or fifteen seconds, after which he hears the tap running in the bathroom and gets ahold of himself. The door opens and Pete comes out, looking just as disheveled as Patrick was picturing and even more lovely. His bed-head is truly astonishing, and the first thing he says to Patrick is, “You don’t have a mirror anywhere in the house?”

“I don’t, sorry. Everything is still a mess.”

“How do you, like, fix your hair or whatever?”

“With the camera on my Mac, actually,” Patrick admits, and Pete laughs at him for a pretty long time, which is not very nice, but then he sits down on the bed on Patrick’s side, very close, and combs Patrick’s hair out of his face with his fingers, which partly makes up for it. 

“So, you’re telling me...” he says, and then interrupts himself to kiss Patrick’s forehead, “that you really make yourself look this cute with nothing but FaceTime?” 

Patrick can feel himself blush furiously at this and is appalled by this turn of events. “You are a ridiculous person,” he says. “Come back to bed.”

“Okay,” Pete says, and gets under the covers, bringing the cold in. “Let’s just stay here all day.”

“I can’t do that,” says Patrick, reasonably. “I need coffee.”

“You absolutely can. I’ll make coffee and bring it here,” Pete says, cuddling close and pressing light kisses under Patrick’s jaw and then further back, promptly finding the little spot behind Patrick’s ear that makes him melt into a puddle. 

“Really?” Patrick whispers in disbelief, as if a sweet, very hot man bringing him hot, very sweet coffee in bed is his wildest dream. _Because it actually is._

“Really. And I’ll do it every day if you’ll let me,” Pete says. 

“Hmm, but what do you want in exchange for that?” Patrick asks, suspicious, but he’s not fooling anyone – Pete is still kissing and nuzzling at his neck, with just a hint of teeth scraping lightly at Patrick’s skin, and his hand is sliding slowly down his stomach, under his shirt, and Patrick would give him every single thing he wants, including his own soul, for him to finally bite down and touch him.

“Oh, I want everything,” Pete replies.

Patrick can feel how very pleased with himself he is by the way his lips curl in a smirk against his skin. But he figures he can let him get away with it, this time ( _and the next, and the next, and the next_ ), so he just rolls his head back on the pillow, to give him more room, and says, “That can be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> I – and anyone reading this, honestly – should thank [andwhatyousaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/) for walking me through every single stage of writing this fic, helping me overcome many struggles and blocks and this-fucking-sucks moments, and finally for being the beta-reader of my dreams. There is no way I could have started, let alone finished, this fic without her.


End file.
